


Gruidae

by disaster_imp



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, First Dates, First Meetings, Letho has a sweet tooth, M/M, No beta we die like Renfri shouldn't have, all fluff no angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:14:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28627863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disaster_imp/pseuds/disaster_imp
Summary: Arris isAroomie'sdelightful OC Crane witcher, who already HAS a gorgeous modern AU as a baker, inMoving On With You.Here's another short AU with the same characters, in which Arris also bakes and Letho still has a sweet tooth.
Relationships: Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 17
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge: Secret Santa (TWFFSS20)





	Gruidae

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aroomie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aroomie/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Moving On (With You)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27713410) by [Aroomie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aroomie/pseuds/Aroomie). 



> Dear lovely Roo,  
> Thank you so much for the invitation to play with your beloved characters, I can only hope I did them justice. Your prompt was DIVINE. I only picked this up a little over a day ago to fill in, and it just kept growing. I hope you like it! At this point it's unbeta'd so if I've done anything horrible like forgotten to finish a sentence, please let me know and I'll fix it! xox
> 
> [](https://imgbb.com/)  
> 

"Sir, please wait here," Letho instructs.

The man huffs impatiently. Letho keeps a carefully impartial expression, and is certainly not questioning for the seventeenth time today why he does this. At least, not out loud. He doesn't need to direct his teams, they deploy instantly upon arrival to secure the area, constantly scanning for any threat. Politicians are the worst part of his job. Certain ones in particular, the privileged entitled brats who have never been told no in their lives; who  _ always  _ think they know better than everyone else about everything, refuse to listen to instructions, and are the first to yell and complain about something going wrong because they didn't listen to the damn instructions in the first place.

He shakes his head. They’re also the reason he  _ has _ a job. This isn’t anything new.  _ Focus _ .

At nod from his nearest colleague - Lambert, the youngest on his team, Letho looks at the man he's supposed to be protecting. He's fiddling with his phone, making sure he huffs again in Letho's direction every few seconds, his posture radiating disapproval with everybody in general and Letho in particular. Letho makes him wait another ten seconds out of spite.

Exiting the vehicle, Letho opens the man's door for him. "You can go in now, sir. Thank you for your patience." Letho can’t resist the dig, but carefully keeps the sarcasm out of his voice. Lambert coughs to disguise a laugh.

His charge glares at Letho suspiciously, but Letho has been doing this for a very long time now. His ability to school his expression to an implacable calmness is well-honed. Before things can escalate, he checks his watch. "Sir? It’s 12:58, you're due inside in two minutes."

That gets the man moving. Letho follows him up the steps and into the building, scanning more out of habit than necessity. His men know they can take a break; once inside, Letho needs only to keep an eye on the meeting progress, calling the rest of the escort back before it winds up. 

The presumed-to-be-honourable Emhyr var Emreis, an upstanding citizen beyond the reproach of mortal ~~men~~ people is, if everything goes according to his careful decades of planning, about to be elected as the leader of his political party. Which means, if the next election  _ also  _ goes as everyone expects, he will be the next duly elected emperor. Letho has little doubt the man will succeed, he has all the qualities of a good president. Which is to say, charisma, authority, ruthlessness, people in his thrall and people who are afraid of him for one reason or another that undoubtedly includes gentle reminders of ‘remember when’ they did something that would destroy their career, their reputation, or their family. The only surprise is that it’s taken him this long to challenge for leadership, and that makes Letho  _ suspicious _ .

He fucking hates politics. Politicians?  _ Both, _ he decides. His faith in human nature has been eaten away, little by little over the years, and if it weren’t for his colleagues, he would have lost it altogether. Not for the first time, he’s grateful his position is not held at the whims and vagaries of those he serves. The Royal Guard - and  _ that’s _ a holdover from ancient times, much like the title of ‘emperor’ for a democratically elected leader - is assigned to protect politicians of all party affiliations, and is by necessity completely independent. Impartiality, integrity and an inability to be corrupted are mandatory requirements for the job, and dedication to the office comes first, above even the lives of those they are meant to be protecting. If his charge involves the Guard in anything that taints the integrity of the office, Letho has the authority - the  _ responsibility _ \- to stop them. 

He’s done it before. Twice.

The hours pass slowly, and Letho takes only a passing interest in the meeting's proceedings. Mostly, he keeps an eye on those coming and going; another unit is tasked with keeping the building itself safe. Eskel, the Guard directing that team, gives him a nod. And covers for him for a bit, so he can take a break, bearing coffee and, knowing Letho’s weakness, a sugary pastry from a nearby cafe. No wonder Eskel’s team is so highly sought after.

“Lambert wants in,” Letho informs him around a mouthful of the sticky iced bread.

Eskel arches an eyebrow noncommittally.

“Don’t pretend you haven’t been trying to get his attention, you corrupt fuck. Your team’s been working on him - stop feigning innocence, none of them do  _ anything  _ without your say-so. You can have him, he’s an asshole. Can’t keep his mouth shut when he should, laughs whenever I deadpan something bitchy...”

_ “I heard that,”  _ Lambert’s tinny voice sounds through his earpiece.

“You were supposed to, thank you for proving my point,” Letho growls back.

“What do you want in return?” Eskel asks.

“Auckes,” Letho says without hesitation. “Auckes and Serrit work well together, splitting them up was cruel.”

“Hear that, Auckes? Eskel says into his lapel. “You want back in with team Viper?”

At Eskel’s nod, Letho does the same.

“All right, what do you think little Lamb? Wanna join the wolves?”

“I’m not a fucking piece of meat to be shared around -”

“He says he’d  _ love _ to,” Letho tells Eskel.

“Fuck you,” Lambert’s disembodied voice snaps in his ear. Letho ignores him.

“Liar,” Eskel says, grinning, leaning into Letho’s lapel. “You’ll like it here, pup. One big happy family.”

Letho doesn’t dignify Lambert’s response with an answer.

Letho calls his team back once Emhyr’s success is announced. There’s still a short formal ceremony to bestow the torque of his new office, a flashy golden number that coincidentally perfectly matches the long, dark grey sleeveless tunic Emhyr is wearing. Letho doesn’t roll his eyes.

The three-car cavalcade has one more stop to make before ~~dumping~~ delivering the future emperor and his daughter home, to wit: said daughter’s eleventh birthday party, at a popular party venue called  _ Gruidae _ . Letho taps his leg impatiently. He’s ready for today to be over, and the noise and chaos of children and parents are going to give him a headache.

Lambert’s team scout the premises, Serrit’s the periphery of the building and the street before Letho escorts Emhyr inside. The politician’s impatient annoyance with his guards gives way to smarm and smiles and political schmoozing the moment he steps through the door. He doesn’t mention his new position himself, of course, but it’s not long before someone’s phone pings with an update and congratulations ring through the room. Emhyr plays it down: this is his daughter’s birthday, after all. The focus should be on her. 

And honestly, Letho can’t fault him there, he seems to be genuine. Many of the people he’s worked for wear the ‘happy family’ facade in public purely as a mask. Emhyr genuinely seems to care about his daughter, and  _ nobody  _ can keep that sort of act up one hundred percent of the time without slipping.

Probably nobody. With Emhyr, he isn’t entirely sure.

The party is inside a large, open building - fancy, as befits the daughter of a wealthy man, as much to show off to his peers as it is for his daughter’s enjoyment. The inside is set up with a stunningly designed fairyland theme. The party host, a young man dressed in bright clothing and sporting a lute, of all things, is leading a group of kids through a game, and looks as if he is enjoying himself just as much as the youngsters are. The adults are gathered in a separate room, a single attendant silently offering trays of canapés and filling drinks. 

A plate of miniature savouries is held at a polite distance in front of Letho, and he looks up into a pair of large, green-hazel eyes. Rather than the fearful look he usually receives in response to his intimidating bulk and shaved head, these eyes are watching him with curiosity. Letho takes note of a strikingly beautiful face; long, soft blond hair falling across one eye and down to his shoulders, and Letho almost reaches out to tuck the errant strand back behind an ear when the man does it himself. He’s tall and slim - although still probably a head shorter than Letho - and the ends of his hair are tipped in a brilliant turquoise. Multiple piercings decorate his face, including several crawling up the shell of his ear and one in the centre of his lower lip. Letho sucks in a breath, and tries to get his bearings. 

“See something you like?” an unfairly melodious voice asks him.

He glances back down at lips now pursed into a smirk - yes, the double entendré was intended, and forgets to  _ breathe. _ He realises his mouth is open and closes it with a snap, covering for his faux pas by reaching out to the tray for something to eat, taking the nearest item.

“The meatballs are spicy,” the beautiful man informs him before turning away.

Letho chokes on the meatball, and a sudden clap on the back makes him whirl around.

“All right there?” Geralt pretty-boy-de-fucking-Rivia asks.

“What the fuck are you doing here? This isn’t your rotation.”

Several frowning heads turn in Letho’s direction, and he cringes inwardly. Emhyr, fortunately, hasn’t noticed. He takes a closer look at Geralt. He’s not in uniform, either.

“Day off.” Geralt leads him over to a corner where Letho could watch the rest of the room, far enough from the rest of the guests to talk softly.

“Day off? You’re just… at a fancy kids’ birthday party on your day off? Bullshit, why are you really here?”

“I’m sort of… Ciri’s godfather.”

“You… what?” Letho asks, still off-balance from his reaction to the waiter. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“Above my pay grade,” Geralt shrugs. “Probably why I’m never assigned to Emhyr, I disclosed it as soon as he became eligible for protection.”

“Huh. Wondered why I was seeing you less.”

The garish party host chooses that moment to step through the doorway, glancing around the room. Spying the corner Geralt and Letho are sitting in, he strides over. 

“Darling, the kids are ready to eat, can you - oh! There he is. Never mind!” He kisses Geralt-the-marble-statue on the cheek and rushes back out. Letho sees the blonde waiter wheeling a cart of food out through another door, and turns his attention back to Geralt.

“Darling?”

Geralt hums. “That’s Jaskier.”

_ “That’s Jaskier. _ The White Wolf, silent and reclusive, mister ‘don’t touch me’, is married to a flamboyant, loud and affectionate  _ bard?” _

Geralt’s poker face gives away exactly nothing. He sips at a beer until the waiter returns, placing a small plate on the table in front of Letho. He winks at Letho, and Geralt arches an eyebrow. On the plate are a rainbow of bite-size miniature macarons, and Letho’s mouth waters. He pops one into his mouth, closes his eyes and moans aloud at the burst of flavour. When he opens his eyes again, Geralt is watching him.

“What?”

“He brought those out just for you,” Geralt points out, waving his hand in the direction of a buffet table that was loaded with more savoury canapés, and nothing else.

Letho pauses with the next morsel already halfway to his mouth.

“What?” he says again, frowning. He looks for the waiter again, but the man is nowhere to be seen. Geralt picks up the plate, looking underneath, and Letho stares at him.

“Surely they’re to share. What are you doing?”

“No, he put the plate in front of  _ you. _ Thought he might have snuck you his number. Nothing,” Geralt replies. Letho shakes his head. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Letho snaps.

“Is it?” Geralt asks..

That night when he gets home, his mind is so full of hazel-green eyes, soft blonde hair and a divinely biteable lower lip that Letho completely forgets to have a headache.

The next day at work, Geralt texts him a number. 

Geralt: Pretty boy from yesterday.

Geralt: Fuck it up and I’ll cut off your balls and roast them over a slow fire

Geralt: Fuck, sorry. Jaskier grabbed my phone. He can be a little feral...

Letho: A little?

Geralt: ^.^

Geralt: He’s also friends with Lambert, watch your back.

_ Great. _

Lambert glares at him all afternoon. Letho can’t wait for the transfer to come through. That night at home, Letho’s fingers hover over the number he’s been given. Every time he closes his eyes, he can picture the sweet, smirking face of the waiter whose name he still doesn’t know. He could ask Geralt. Or Lambert? No, that would make him look bad, was he already supposed to know?

He tries to send a text message instead. “Hi, this is… the guy from the party…” what if he’s being presumptuous? What if he’s not the only guy, will he even know who this is from? Is it too early to text?  _ Why is this so hard? _

He falls asleep, late and restless, without sending a message.

The next day at work, Lambert glares at him harder, and then puts salt in his coffee.

_ Fine. _ He sends a message.

Letho: Hi, this is Letho. 

Pretty boy: 8pm Saturday at Gruidae. Wear something comfortable.

Letho almost drops his phone.  _ Direct. _

Lambert stops putting salt in his coffee. He keeps glaring, but it’s back to his everyday Lambert glare rather than his ‘why haven’t you called my friend yet’ Lambert Special Death Stare.

The rest of the week passes in something of a blur. He remembers to school his features to the same level of granite boredom that his face has featured for nearly every shift of his working career, but the impulse to smile, to run around with a lovesick grin on his face is unbearable. He knows that sometimes it slips through, he catches Lambert smirking at him whenever he lapses. 

At 6pm Saturday, Letho is sorting through his wardrobe. His work suits and anything remotely formal are pushed to one side. Wear something comfortable, what does that  _ mean? _ Neat casual?  _ Actually _ comfortable, like pyjamas? He pinches the bridge of his nose. Work is  _ easy. _ He knows what’s expected, there’s a uniform for fuck’s sake. How is he supposed to follow such a vague instruction? 

In the end, he decides to interpret it mostly literally, with a small dose of acceptable things to wear outside the house, which does not include pyjamas except under special circumstances. If the man meant what he said,  _ anything _ would be fine, and this would just be a relaxed date. Letho hopes so. If he was wrong, well, that is a problem for later, really.

Happy with his justification, Letho dons his most comfortable pair of jeans, an old gaming t-shirt and his favourite hoodie. Around-the-house-when-he’s-home-alone clothes, but also acceptable-for-ducking-out-to-the-store clothes, which he knows, because he has done that. Definitely  _ not _ first date material clothes, but…  _ But.  _ If they are first date material clothes then it’s just going to endear the man to him more. He can be himself. He crosses his fingers, refuses to let his thoughts spiral, and walks to the venue.

When he arrives, he knocks on the door, but there’s a closed sign up, and no answer. He tries the door and it’s unlocked, but he’s unsure about going inside. Is it like going in to someone’s house, or a cafe? He doesn’t have the script for this. His phone buzzes, and there’s a message.  _ Hi Letho. The door’s unlocked, come in and follow the light. _

Cryptic. He enters quietly, and the venue is pitch black, except for a glow emanating from the room the adults were sequestered in during Ciri’s party. He makes his way inside. There’s no light coming from the kitchen, and a single light shining inside the room lights up a table. On the table is a folded card, held in place with a small torch.

Letho picks up the torch and opens the card. Inside is a sort of map, with small dots ending in an X, starting at the doorway by the kitchen, a rhyme, and a yellow length of ribbon.

_ The way is dark but favours guide the way _

_ The first within, the next on portal’s frame _

_ Each one will earn you sweetness if you play; _

_ And at the end another little game. _

_ Walk straight ahead until your path is blocked _

_ Turn right and two steps forward, right again; _

_ Proceed until you find a painted rock. _

_ Hard left, and find the narrow winding lane _

_ ‘twixt and ‘round each toadstool ‘til the last _

_ Follow then the footprints if you dare _

_ And when you think you’ve ev’ry challenge passed _

_ Look up and to the right to find me there. _

Amused, Letho follows the instructions on the card. The first ribbon he keeps folded inside the card. When he reaches the doorway, a matching orange ribbon is pinned to the frame. He adds it to the first. The light of the torch is dim, only illuminating a tiny area, so when he reaches the wall he has to search for a minute to find the next, red ribbon. Then it’s violet, sitting underneath a painted river stone set on the floor. Left, and the edge of a toadstool statue is in front of him; he works his way along the path of toadstools to a blue ribbon. Footprints - and his shoelaces - shining bright white under black light, glow, and at the end of the path, a green ribbon is pinned to a padded pole. He looks up and to the right.

The glow starts slowly, twenty or more orange globes of light in the distance that appear to float in the air. As the glow brightens, they illuminate more and more space, slowly revealing the twisted branches and large trunk of a tree that looks like it came straight out of an enchanted forest. More lights come on, like fairy lanterns hanging in ancient tree limbs, down to the hillock it sits on, exposed roots spreading out and encasing a natural-looking fairy throne. Sitting on the floor, leaning against a wall of roots, is the gorgeous waiter. In front of him is a checkered red and white rug, looking for all the world like a fairytale picnic. The rug is loaded with plates of food: sandwiches, cuts of cold meat, a platter with cheese and biscuits, and bottles of beer and wine.

The other man’s feet are bare, and Letho lets his gaze wander. With no small relief, he sees he’s wearing a pair of soft cotton pants with a t-shirt, and he has a longer, denim-coloured shirt tied around his waist. He holds up his ribbons, and the man grins, waving him over.

“I’m sorry,” Letho says, kneeling at the edge of the picnic rug. “I should have asked - I still don’t know your name.”

“Oh! My name is Arris.”

“Arris,” Letho repeats, trying the word out.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come, Jaskier said Lambert  _ insisted _ you wouldn’t miss it, but you didn’t reply.”

Letho only realises then that he hadn’t sent another message since the first. Arris’ instruction had sounded like an order, one Letho hadn’t questioned. He blushes.

Arris waves to the food, and they both dig in. 

“Did you make all this?” Letho asks.

“My brother Kaleb makes the savouries here. I do all the sweets. Tonight is all me, so this is a little simpler than the food you had the other night. Save room for dessert. What can I ask you about work?”

“Hmm, not about.. Much. Not much. I can tell you how much of an asshole Lambert is, if you like.”

Arris laughs out loud, his eyes glinting with mischief. “He and Jaskier are double trouble, they egg each other on like you wouldn’t believe. If either of them are plotting something, you can guarantee they’re both hip deep in it.”

“Lambert glared at me for two days until I messaged you. And Jaskier sent me a message from Geralt’s phone threatening to cut off my balls and roast them if I fuck this up. They like you.”

“Yeah,” Arris said softly. “They can get a little overwhelming sometimes though. Especially together. I’m curious. Given your job, why did you trust me enough to come here on your own?”

Letho smiles. “Everywhere Emhyr goes is screened.  _ Everyone _ is screened. I trust my bosses, and I trust Geralt. If there were any red flags, the party wouldn’t have been here.”

Arris holds out a strip of soft black cloth, a blindfold. “If you’re done with dinner, will you trust me again?”

At Letho’s nod, Arris ties the cloth around his eyes. His touch is gentle, lingering, and he brushes soft fingers across Letho’s skin far more than is necessary to tie the blindfold. 

When he’s done, Letho hears him sit down, opposite, knees touching. “Do you remember the colours of the ribbons?”

“Yes. Yellow, green, blue, violet, red, orange. Rainbow colours.”

Arris gives a happy hum. “Well done. Choose your first colour.”

“Orange.”

A hand touches his knee, his arm, before a light touch brushes his jawline. A thumb presses down on his chin, a silent instruction to open, and when he does, something soft is placed between his lips and into his mouth. The soft, sweet grit of a biscuit base and the light tang of a citrus cheesecake, not too sweet and not too heavy. Letho lets out an involuntary moan, the same as he had the night of the party.

“That’s the sound I’ve been waiting all week to hear,” Arris says, a little breathlessly.

“You heard that?” Letho asks, surprised.

“I think I fell in love on the spot,” Arris replies. “I’m a little vain, when it comes to my cooking. To see someone appreciate it so… thoroughly. I had to leave the room so I didn’t do anything inappropriate. I may have to confess to jostling the most important man in the room in my haste. He seemed less than impressed.”

“I think you misjudge importance,” Letho says with a snort.

“Hmm, I work with wealthy and powerful people regularly. They have a sort of pecking order. He is important, in that he holds a lot of power; that others consider him so. One might also argue that  _ you  _ were the most important person in that room, by virtue of your responsibilities. Or Geralt, since his presence kept Jaskier distracted enough to keep him from barging in to say something outrageous. Or me, since I kept them busy with food and nobody got distracted by any world-ending arguments. What colour next?”

“Green,” Letho replies.

Another touch to Letho’s lips, another bite of something sweet, this time a rich and smooth dark chocolate and mint slice. Letho makes his way through lemon meringue pie for yellow, a small cupcake with rich buttercream icing for violet, and a tart blueberry and apple crumble for blue. 

“Red,” Letho says next, rubbing his belly. “I don’t know if I can fit any more in.”

“Red is me,” Arris says quietly, soft fingers brushing Letho’s chin again. “Is that presumptuous?”

Letho stills, food forgotten, focusing his remaining senses completely on the man in front of him. 

“No,” he breathes.

“Do you want to take the blindfold off?” Arris asks in a husky voice, his hand moving to the back of Letho’s neck.

“Not yet,” Letho replies. “This is… different.”

“Yeah,” Arris says. Letho licks his lips, and he feels warm breath wash over his cheek. A kiss is pressed to the corner of his mouth, and then soft lips, tasting of ripe strawberries, meet his own.

**Author's Note:**

> There are a few little HC's that didn't quite make it in! Arris and Kaleb own Gruidae.  
> Gruidae is the family of Cranes!


End file.
